Mme Pletheridge’s School for
Talented Young Ladies
36, Marianjosephstrasse, Vienna,
The Imperial Bohemian Empire
11th June 1173
Rhisiart ― what do you mean you can’t send me letters for a year? We’re engaged, for goodness sake! I’m sure the civil service don’t mean you can’t write to your fiancée while you do your year on that island. I understand perfectly why you should have no communication with business people or family or people like that who could take up your time and bother you but you need me, darling. I make you happy. You’ll want to throw yourself into the sea if we aren’t in regular, detailed correspondence.
Honestly, Rhisiart, isn’t it disagreeable enough already that you live in London and I am trapped here in this pestilential establishment teaching Welsh and embroidery to the most utter ignoramuses? I cherish your letters, my darling. I read them surreptitiously while the girls practise their group declamation of Armes Prydein. Without them I will break my heart and die howling on the headmistress’s Turkey carpet, I promise you.
There must be some way. I know you said your survival year is vital if you want to qualify as a civil servant but, darling, if I know one thing from living in this political ant heap of a city, it’s that there are always ways and means. Trust me, there will assuredly be someone you can bully into ferrying letters for you, or someone’s greasy palm you can threaten to bring to light unless he helps you. There always, always is. It just requires a little exertion to find him. That’s another reason why you need me. I’ m sure you’d never get anything done unless I gave you a little poke in the ribs now and then. Isn’t that what wives (to-be) are for?
So, no more of this nonsense. I will expect your letter as usual on Monday week. I have faith in you, my darling, I know you can achieve anything for
Your dearest,
Felicitas
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